Carpe Jugulum by Terry Pratchett Page B

also had the impression that the poor man was suffering from frequent attacks of cramp.
    “—we are gathered here together in the sight of…um…one another…”
    “Are you all right, Reverend?” said the King, leaning forward.
    “Never better, sir, um, I assure you,” said Oats miserably, “…and I therefore name thee…that is, you…”
    There was a deep, horrible pause.
    Glassy faced, the priest handed the baby to Millie. Then he removed his hat, took a small scrap of paper from the lining, read it, moved his lips a few times as he said the words to himself, and then replaced the hat on his sweating forehead and took the baby again.
    “I name you…Esmerelda Margaret Note Spelling of Lancre!”
    The shocked silence was suddenly filled.
    “Note Spelling?” said Magrat and Agnes together.
    “Esmerelda?” said Nanny.
    The baby opened her eyes.
    And the doors swung back.

Choices. It was always choices…
    There’d been that man down in Spackle, the one that’d killed those little kids. The people’d sent for her and she’d looked at him and seen the guilt writhing in his head like a red worm, and then she’d taken them to his farm and showed them where to dig, and he’d thrown himself down and asked her for mercy, because he said he’d been drunk and it’d all been done in alcohol.
    Her words came back to her. She’d said, in sobriety: end it in hemp.
    And they’d dragged him off and hanged him in a hempen rope and she’d gone to watch because she owed him that much, and he’d cursed, which was unfair because hanging is a clean death, or at least cleaner than the one he’d have got if the villagers had dared defy her, and she’d seen the shadow of Death come for him, and then behind Death came the smaller, brighter figures, and then —
    In the darkness, the rocking chair creaked as it thundered back and forth.
    The villagers had said justice had been done, and she’d lost patience and told them to go home, then, and pray to whatever gods they believed in that it was never done to them. The smug mask of virtue triumphant could be almost as horrible as the face of wickedness revealed.
    She shuddered at a memory. Almost as horrible, but not quite.
    The odd thing was, quite a lot of villagers had turned up to his funeral, and there had been mutterings from one or two people on the lines of, yes, well, but overall he wasn’t such a bad chap…and anyway, maybe she made him say it. And she’d got the dark looks.
    Supposing there was justice for all, after all? For every unheeded beggar, every harsh word, every neglected duty, every slight…every choice…Because that was the point, wasn’t it? You had to choose. You might be right, you might be wrong, but you had to choose , knowing that the rightness or wrongness might never be clear or even that you were deciding between two sorts of wrong, that there was no right anywhere. And always, always , you did it by yourself. You were the one there, on the edge, watching and listening. Never any tears, never any apology, never any regrets…You saved all that up in a way that could be used when needed.
    She never discussed this with Nanny Ogg or any of the other witches. That would be breaking the secret. Sometimes, late at night, when the conversation tip-toed around to that area, Nanny might just drop in some line like “old Scrivens went peacefully enough at the finish” and may or may not mean something by it. Nanny, as far as she could see, didn’t agonize very much. To her, some things obviously had to be done, and that was that. Any of the thoughts that hung around she kept locked up tight, even from herself. Granny envied her.
    Who’d come to her funeral when she died?
    They didn’t ask her!
    Memories jostled. Other figures marched out into the shadows around the candlelight.
    She’d done things and been places, and found ways to turn anger outward that had surprised even her. She’d faced down others far more powerful than she was, if